


Waiting; wondering

by sea-longing (wanderlustforever)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Helm's Deep, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustforever/pseuds/sea-longing
Summary: Aragorn has died and Legolas isn't coping well. Gimli handles the situation as best as he can.
Kudos: 1





	Waiting; wondering

  
The fortress is busier than a den of goblins preparing for mischief. Every corridor, every bit of flat ground, is occupied and still more  
arrive from far-flung parts of Rohan, driven by sword and fire. Wounds must be tended, shelter allocated for both men and livestock, food made and distributed. Already, arguments break out. Guards are kept  
busy issuing commands that no one seems to heed. There’s not been a quiet moment for the remaining men of Theoden’s court since their arrival at Helm’s Deep.

Little help can he offer, even if he wanted to. Some recognise him; in their eyes, he sees pity. Suspicious glances are thrown his way,  
unwarranted. Was he not one of the Three Hunters and White Wizard who had healed the King and been welcomed into the Golden Hall and given a place of honour in the Prince’s funeral procession? Was he not as  
valorous as their riders in battle against the Wargs? At any other time, he would have bristled against the horse-people’s ignorance of the price paid by his kin because of their opposition to the Dark Lord.

But now, he takes no insult and offers none in return.

He is weary.

Death is not unknown to him. Nor is the loss of a dearly held brother in arms. As a seasoned warrior, he has faced these trials before. And yet, for all of his experience, he cannot swallow the bitter truth of Aragorn’s demise. Of the three of them, Aragorn was most destined for greatness; it seems a cruel joke that he would come to such an unceremonious end when lesser men survived.

A soft voice interrupts his thoughts. “Would you care for some supper?” The Lady of Rohan looks as bereft as he feels. In absence of an answer, she continues “It’s not much, but-”

“Aye, I would appreciate it.” Hungry he is not, but it is unwise to turn down a meal when the timing of the next one is unknown. “But only  
if you would share it with me.” Even in grief, he remembers how to conduct himself.

She gifts him a smile, small but genuine. “I will sup with my uncle.”

She leaves him with dried horse-meat, which he has never eaten before, cheese and some hard bread not unlike cram. At the thought of cram, he remembers that there is still some lembas in his pack and from lembas he remembers golden hair and pointy ears – and that he has not laid eyes on the elf to whom both belong. He’ll be grieving, just like  
Gimli, but he’ll not have the common sense to eat or rest and he’ll be in less than fit state to fight, and that will not do.

Thank Eru for the lembas; he has no hope of tempting a grieving elf into eating any of the human provisions.

Only, the elf is nowhere to be found.

He’s walked down every visible corridor and scoured every courtyard and searched both indoors and outdoors. There are not many places to hide here – the walls are thick and space is scarce – but it seems that the elf has managed it somehow. And though he’s sure that Legolas would not have done anything so craven, he makes a trip to the stable; there, he finds Arod tucking in to his own supper. The horse makes a sound upon seeing him, but unlike his companions, Gimli doesn’t speak horse well enough to understand what the beast wants.

Think like an elf, he tells himself; what impractical thing would an elf seek to do in a time of grief?

A memory comes to him, of the Fellowship’s first night in Lothlorien, when their grief weighed heaviest on them, where all of the members of the Fellowship had rested on comfortable beds and pillows on the ground, but Legolas had sought the trees instead.

There is not one tree in the fortress, but it is not a tree that Gimli knows to look for anyway. There is only one tower here, and it spires into the sky not unlike the mallorn trees of Lothlorien.

It is a steep, long hike up the winding stairs of the tower. Half the lamps are unlit, more so the higher he climbs. His breath comes short, though not too short that he cannot mutter a few choice words about his friend’s parentage and upbringing.

At long last, he spies the dull glow of the evening sky as the stairs opens to reveal a giant horn embedded in the rock. Gimli does not know much about Rohirric culture, but the legend of Helm Hammerhand is one  
thing he knows well enough; it had been one of his favourite tales as a young dwarf.

But more important than the legendary horn is his quarry, whom he has finally found.

Legolas stands at the very top of the stairs, looking out into valley. There is not much of interest there, but who knows what his sharp eyes can see?

“A merry chase you led me on,” Gimli huffs. “I now know this fortress better than most of the men.”

The only indication Legolas gives that he has heard him is a brief glance.

Well, he did not expect his task to be easy. Aragorn would know better how to deal with the elf’s strange moods, but if he were here, there would not be a strange mood to deal with.

“Does some danger approach?”

Legolas shakes his head. “All is quiet.”

“Then leave it for a moment, I have brought us supper.” Gimli reveals his bounty, offering the lembas to the elf.

It comes as no surprise at all when Legolas shakes his head a second time. “Not today.”

“I have little appetite either, but Dwarves do not skip meals before a battle and I’ll wager that Elves are much the same.” At Legolas’  
silence, he pushes a little harder. “It would do no good to starve yourself. He’ll not want you to grieve him like this, not-”

“There’s nothing to grieve.” Legolas’ eyes remain fixed on the horizon; his tone brooks no argument.

There are many meanings that can be ascribed to that response. Does he  
mean that elves do not grieve for the passing of mortals? That Aragorn’s death is not worth grieving? Neither seem true; Legolas had  
grieved, albeit quieter than most, for Gandalf and Boromir and even the two hobbits they had mistakenly thought dead, and it is no secret at all that Legolas cares for Aragorn the most of all of the members of the Fellowship.

Dread fills Gimli as he thinks of yet another meaning. “Lad…”

“He’ll be here.”

Sorrow fills Gimli’s heart, for Aragorn who is dead and for Legolas who is so distraught that he is insensible. Guilt too. He should never have left the elf’s side at all; should never have let him wander off to be alone in his strange elven mind.

Legolas eyes him curiously. Without being prompted, he explains “Aragorn has faced deadlier battles and taken many wounds more grievous than falling into a river.”

A warrior’s luck must run out one day, Gimli thinks. It is not a thought he shares with his friend.

“Are you waiting for him then?”

“In part. If anything approaches, it is best to know sooner than later.” Legolas looks up at the sky, and Gimli follows his gaze. The  
sky is almost dark. “The stars are already twinkling, can you see them?”

“Alas, I cannot.” He wonders whether they are talking about the stars or of their hope for Aragorn’s return.

“You should rest. And eat.” Rich words, coming from someone who refuses to do both. As if Legolas knows his thoughts, he adds “Don’t try to keep up with elvenkind.”

“Keep up?” This, he can do. Feigning offense, though he has long stopped taking offense at Legolas’ cheek, he growls “Look here, princeling, dwarves are as hardy as stone. ‘Tis elves who should be slow to compare-”

“All the same, Gimli, you should rest while you can. Is that not the Dwarvish wisdom you spoke of earlier?”

Against such silver-tongued devilry, he has no defence. Legolas clearly wants to be left alone and though Gimli worries for him and  
calls him lad, he has not forgotten that elf is older than him and his father put together. This is an argument he cannot win. “Aye.”

He leaves the lembas within Legolas’ reach, hoping to find the leaf wrapping empty when he returns here in the morning, and starts his  
descent down the badly-lit stairwell. At the first turn, he looks back, and sees Legolas, straight-backed, glowing faintly against the  
night sky.

*

Morning brings with it more weariness, of the body and heart.

Of the Three Hunters who had greeted the dawn together yesterday morning, today one is dead, one is addled and the other is a dwarf far from home and out of his depth. What use is he here, in the court of a king who had refused to listen to counsel from the White Wizard himself?

The Fellowship should never have diverged from their quest. For all the distance they covered in pursuit of the Uruks, they did not save Merry and Pippin. Gandalf would have released Theoden from Saruman’s spell with or without their aid. Aragorn would have lived.

Yet, even as Gimli despairs, he knows it is not time to think but to act. Theoden may be stubborn, but he will nevertheless offer him what advice he can. Legolas may be addled with grief, so it will fall to him to keep the elf from coming to harm. The fortress is as strong as the mountains from which it was carved; it can be defended.

He rises.

Though it is early, there is much that goes on. The ringing of hammer against metal and the roaring of fires fed by bellows are sounds most easily recognised by his ears. Then comes the ever-present murmur of voices, the scent of food cooked by fire and the sight of faces, both too young and too old, drawn in fear. The past years have not been  
kind to any of the peoples of Middle Earth, but it seems to have been particularly harsh on the people of Rohan. He finds the Lady in the main hall, overseeing the distribution of  
some sort of porridge-like substance for breakfast. It will do for him.

“Did you get any rest, Master Gimli?”

Very little, and it seems that the night passed much the same for her. “Aye, thank you. I hope you did too.”

“Have some breakfast,” she says, following once more with an apologetic “It’s not much, but it’s hot.”

“Could I ask a favour of you, m’lady? If you have any fruit, an apple or dried berries, could you spare it for me?”

Her eyes soften; she must know that he is asking for Legolas. “I will see what I can find.”

*

The climb up the tower is less daunting this time and he does not need to catch his breath when he is at its peak. Legolas is there, as still as rock itself though he must have heard Gimli approaching, staring out into the valley as if he can will Aragorn to appear on the horizon if he looks hard enough.

“Does aught move out there?”

An answer is not immediately forthcoming, but he is versed enough in the ways of this particular elf to know to wait.

“Birds. Rabbits.”

“Any sign of Gandalf?” Gimli has grown up hearing his father’s tales of the wizard disappearing at what seems to be the most inopportune moments, only to re-appear when he is most needed. If that is true,  
and he certainly believes it to be, Gandalf should not be too far away; their need of him is dire.

Legolas shakes his head. His countenance is as pinched as the faces of the men Gimli had seen earlier; it must be sinking in by now that  
Aragorn is lost to them.

“You’ll not believe what I managed to hunt down,” he says, keeping his fist closed around his treasure as he holds it out. Legolas tears his eyes away from his watch and looks at him wearily, as if he’s a child that needs humouring. “Go on, take it.”

When the plum falls into his open palm, the corners of his lips pull up into a small smile. “A winter fruit. It must be the last of the  
season.”

“All the sweeter for it.”

For a long time, Legolas just holds the small plum in his hand, as if Gimli had given him a jewel to gaze at and not food to eat. The sun  
rises higher in the sky and voices rise up to the tower from the courtyard. At long last, the elf lifts the fruit to his lips and takes a bite, if it could be called that; the first time Gimli has seen him eat since they rode into Edoras.

He waits until Legolas has eaten enough of the fruit to reveal the pit before saying “There is something I would ask of you,” ignoring the  
way the elf’s nostrils flare in annoyance. Scant does he give away of his thoughts and feelings, but this, Gimli has noticed, is one of his tells. “The King has not faced Saruman as an adversary, but we have. I will give him what advice I can, but I would like your counsel first. Walk with me around the keep, I will tell you what I think of thebdefences and I would hear what you have to say.”

“It is not the way of my people to seek refuge in a fortress, nor is it our way to fight in open plains. Give me a forest and a handful of archers and I can tell you how best to fight off an invading horde, but here, I am of little use.”

“You sell yourself short. Never have I thought your counsel useless.”

Not lightly does he say so. If anyone had asked the dwarf who had set out from Rivendell whether he’d have any regard for the views of Thranduil’s princeling, he’d have scoffed.

Legolas does not answer him.

“More use you would be to me, experience or no, than you are up here-”

“No one else watches-”

“There are watchers on every rampart. Scouts there are too, I heard the King giving orders-”

“They are not looking for Aragorn.”

Those words are like a slap in the face. He had believed Legolas to have awakened to reality, but he is still senseless. For one who is older than Gimli can truly comprehend, for one who playfully refers to his companions as children, this shameless wallowing in grief is unsightly; Gimli hates how child-like and undignified his friend has become.

“Aragorn is dead! He fell-”

“The orc lied.” Legolas’ blue eyes, usually as bright as a spring morning, are as hard as ice, and so is his voice. In his cold wrath, he resembles his King and father. “Did you see him die? Did you find his body, his blood, on the battlefield? Do you think his upbringing  
in Imladris was so remiss that he never learnt to swim?”

There is much Gimli can say in response, but all will fall on deaf ears.

“Search your heart. Do you truly feel that he is dead?”

And just like that, his anger gives way to weariness, to despair. How very elvish it is, to be able to feel truth instead of having to know it. “I only know what I can see and hear and smell. The gift of foresight is not given to Dwarf-kind. My heart tells me nothing, it is  
only heavy because my eyes did not see Aragorn return from battle yesterday.”

The ice in Legolas’ eyes has melted as surely as Gimli’s own anger. His voice is gentle when he says “Perhaps the way of your kind is wiser.” He picks up his bow. “Come. Let us see what we can make of Rohan’s defences.”

It is a better outcome to their argument than Gimli had dared hope for, but he is not cheered by the unexpected good luck. Though he wants to believe that Legolas has changed his mind, he knows that not  
to be the case. “Aye, let’s be off then.”

As they walk down the winding stairs of the tower, he casts about for a less divisive conversation. “It is a sight indeed to behold the Horn of Helm Hammerhand, that my kin have only spoken of as legend. It is  
said that his ghost still walks the earth, seeking vengeance for his death.”

“Perhaps.”

Here and there Gimli leads him, under the watchful and curious eyes of the Rohirrim, as he voices his thoughts on the placement of troops and laments the lack of siege-breaking machinery that his kindred have  
long crafted to protect their own kingdoms. Legolas mostly agrees with him, mostly pays attention, but he seems at all times like a bird on the verge of taking flight. Gimli had considered asking Legolas to accompany him to discuss his ideas with Theoden, but it is as plain as day that the elf has no interest in doing so.

When he has pointed out every one of his concerns with the keep and its defence, when he no longer has reason to detain Legolas, the elf makes for the tower and Gimli trudges behind him. How will Legolas  
fare, he wonders, when there are Uruk Hai and wild men and wargs before the walls and he can no longer lie to himself that Aragorn will return? Will he lose his stomach for battle or will his wrath be terrible like the elves of ages past? Will he lose his will to live? Gimli has always doubted the truth of the old stories of elves dying of grief, but now he is not so sure.

Anyone who thinks the elf an easy target will have him to face, he vows.

He finds Legolas leaning over the crumbled wall, his cloak blowing in the wind, and his heart nearly comes to a stop even as his legs break into a sprint to reach the elf before he can fall-

-except that Legolas is not falling at all, he’s just looking over the edge.

And he has a smile on his face wider than Gimli has ever seen.

“He’s here.”

“Who?” He knows the answer, because who else can put a smile like that on the elf’s face, but he must ask because how can it be?

“Aragorn.”

*

Someone calls for the gates to be opened.  
A crowd has gathered in the courtyard, but over the din of their chatter Gimli can hear the clattering of hooves. A woman’s voice  
exclaims “He’s alive!” and at that point, there is no longer any doubt that Aragorn has indeed returned to them.

“Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way, I’m going to kill him!” 

  
And he should, for all of the torment the man has caused him over the past day, but as he pushes through the crowd and finally lays his eyes on the man, all he wants to do is hug him.

“You are the luckiest, the canniest and the most reckless man I ever knew,” he says, voice cracking as Aragorn fiddles with his horse’s reins, and he can hold himself back to no longer. “Bless you laddie.”

“Gimli,” he replies, voice hoarse. “Where is the King?”

Aragorn takes off towards the main hall and Gimli takes a little time to compose himself; when he has dried his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat, he follows.

He finds Legolas just outside the hall, grinning; his eyes are so bright that they outshine the finest sapphires. "Come on, Gimli."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> This is my first LOTR fic. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear your thoughts on it. 
> 
> Thank you ❤


End file.
